


A Feast Presents Itself

by frankenberger



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Cannibalism, Culinary Wankery, I spent too long researching for this one and it's probably all wrong, Inferno (Dante), M/M, Minor Character Death, Pre-Canon, Ravage Anthology
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-05
Updated: 2019-11-05
Packaged: 2021-02-01 01:48:00
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,060
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21320899
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/frankenberger/pseuds/frankenberger
Summary: The Chesapeake Ripper is on the loose in Baltimore, and Hannibal Lecter prepares a magnificent feast to revel in the bounty of his blood-streaked harvest as the autumnal storms rage on outside his window.A Ravage Anthology story for the Third Circle of Hell - Gluttony.
Comments: 2
Kudos: 5
Collections: RAVAGE - An Infernal Hannibal Anthology





	A Feast Presents Itself

**Author's Note:**

> Hiya, 
> 
> This was my contribution to the Ravage Anthology, for the Third Circle of Hell (Gluttony). It's pre-show so there's no hannigram (sorry) but this was where the muses led me.
> 
> The topic was SO awesome, and I want to say a big thankyou to Love Crime Books for putting together this amazing fanthology. Seriously, this fandom is so creative and I was just happy to be a part of this project.

**i. Ciacco**

“I’ve seen you before,” said the old man. “Don’t tell me, I’ll figure it out. Names don’t come easily to me, but the faces always stay right here.” He tapped one chubby forefinger against his temple, a wry smile on his face.

Hannibal placed his purchases on the cluttered shop counter and blinked, disoriented at the feeling of walking into a conversation that seemed already in progress. The words didn’t spark recognition, and the man himself was nondescript, sun-weathered and leathery. An elderly Italian man in a neighbourhood replete with elderly Italian men who served as background scenery in bakeries and delicatessens, or twilight dim and rosemary-scented stores such as this.

“I called earlier about the Vin Santo,” Hannibal said. “Twelve bottles, special order.”

The man scowled, studying Hannibal’s face intently. “You would have spoken to Max.” He lifted the bag of dried porcini and took a deep sniff, the plastic crinkling as he inhaled the earthy scent of the mushrooms. “Max isn’t here.”

Hannibal gave him a thin smile that barely masked his disappointment. “Will he be back soon?”

“He comes, he goes. I couldn’t say.” The man displayed a row of dark-stained teeth as he spoke, the patina of a lifetime of coffee and cigars. He slowly tapped at the buttons on the cash register, ringing up the mushrooms and bags of dried spices. “I swear I’ve seen you before,” he repeated. “A long time ago. Perhaps in Florence. Have you ever been?”

“To Florence? A long time ago,” said Hannibal.

“Yes, that’s it.” Vindicated, the old man grinned. “I am sure that’s it. You were there before I left. You were young. I was also young, if you can believe it. You are far better preserved.”

The man was stout, barrel-chested and broad in a way that spoke of muscles wasted away to fat, and strength sapped by indulgence. “Tell me you remember me, please. I hate to think I can be forgotten so easily.”

“I’m sorry,” said Hannibal, retrieving his wallet from his coat pocket. “I wish I could say so, but I don’t recall.”

“My name is Giacomo,” said the old man. “They used to call me Ciacco. Ah!” He slapped his palm on the counter with a sudden burst of remembered anger. The loud noise echoed through the narrow aisles of the store, sending dust motes spiralling through the air. “Those little shits! I gave them food, I gave them booze and drugs. And they call me a pig. Ungrateful fucking kids.”

Hannibal wore the smile he reserved for outbursts from unruly patients, when he would rather let them tire themselves out within spirals of their own frustration than interrupt and become a target of their ire. He was increasingly certain that he had never seen Giacomo before, unless the man had changed dramatically in the intervening years.

“But it was worth it for the parties.” Giacomo’s eyes were distant. He was elsewhere, rummaging amongst the shelves and boxes of his memories. “We lived like kings, in those days. We did such horrible, wonderful things. Do you remember? The girls, the sex. The wine.”

“The wine,” echoed Hannibal. It was diverting enough to reminisce about past glories, although his most triumphant moments in Florence were decidedly less pedestrian.

He remembered not parties and booze, but blood. Flowers of crimson that darkened to black as he posed the stiffening doll-like limbs of bodies in the Florentine evening. He remembered a quickening of his pulse, unlike anything he had experienced since his youth, a growing hunger.

Giacomo made a small noise of disdain, recalling Hannibal from the hallways of his memory palace. “Your special order, yes. I’ll check Max’s notebook,” he offered. The book in question, dog-eared and tattered, yielded positive results.

“Dr Hannibal Lecter. One case of Vin Santo,” he recited, before glancing up at Hannibal. “The wine is delayed at customs. It should be here in a few weeks.”

Hannibal gave a resigned nod in response.

“Max should have called you,” Giacomo offered, but it provided no succour for the inconvenience. Wordlessly, Hannibal extracted a few bills from his wallet and handed them to the old man.

Giacomo chuckled as he battled with the ancient cash register, clearly amused by some private joke. “You’ve chosen a very expensive hobby,” he remarked. “But it is a fine wine, a very old vintage. It grows in decadence as it ages. Me, I only grow fat and tired.”

“The lees of past experiences add character to the barrel,” Hannibal replied. “Maturity forces that character to blossom, or it turns the whole mess into vinegar.”

“Are you talking about me, or the wine?” Giacomo tossed Hannibal’s change on the counter, leaving him to retrieve the wrinkled bills. “I prefer younger vintages, fresh and sweet. I always have. Do you remember?” He challenged Hannibal with a steady gaze, exposing his teeth with a smile that seemed almost aggressive.

Even from behind the veneer of age, Hannibal could make out the eyes of a predator. He was not about to recoil in disgust from such a realisation, but it certainly provided an opportunity for exploration at a later date. “Do you have a business card?”

**ii. Hunger**

The window was open. Borne on the breeze was the scent of the coming rain. Hannibal put down his knife and took a sip of cabernet, allowing the primal perfume of damp earth and autumn rot to harmonise with the wine. It was a heady combination, whispering a portent for the night to come.

Filing the scent away for future reference, Hannibal resumed his work. The cherries, ripe and dark, stained his fingers as he pitted them and dropped them one by one into the waiting pot. It was a tedious task, but it calmed his mind.

A shape appeared in the doorway. He was sleep-rumpled and casual, in a pair of pyjama pants and Hannibal’s own red sweater. He gave a sly grin, as if proud of such a display of reckless familiarity. “Good morning,” he said.

“It’s past three in the afternoon, Donald.” Hannibal chided him gently, plucking another cherry from the bowl. An arm slipped around his waist, groping fingers clutching at the fabric of his shirt. Setting his knife on the chopping board in an exaggerated show of acquiescence, he allowed his face to be turned, his lips to be captured in a brief kiss. “Shouldn’t you be at work?”

“I should, but the day is entirely wasted.” Dr Donald Sutcliffe, a talented neurologist by trade, had recently proven himself to be a consummate professional in every setting but the bedroom. He leaned in closer, his breath tickling against Hannibal’s cheek. “Perhaps we should give it up as a bad joke and just go back to bed.”

The proposition was tempting. Years had passed since he first met Donald, since they shared the easy camaraderie of freshly minted surgical residents at Johns Hopkins. It had been pure chance that they had reconnected, and the new dimensions of their relationship were as unexpected as they were satisfying. It was greedy of him, but Hannibal wanted nothing more than to devour this newfound intimacy whole, to gorge himself long past the point of satiety.

To consume, to be consumed.

Sadly, Hannibal had a previous engagement, a more literal feast to prepare. He returned Donald’s smile, but he allowed his silence to convey his response.

Donald made a dissatisfied noise. “And here I was thinking we could revel in our shared truancy for a moment.” He stepped around Hannibal, snagging a pitted cherry from the pot as he went to pour himself a glass of wine. “Don’t you have PhD students to interview this week?”

“I tasked it to Dr Bloom.” Hannibal sipped his own wine, resigned to the interruption.

“Bloom?”

“She’s a good judge of character.” Hannibal smiled, the briefest quirk at the corners of his mouth to betray his fondness for his protege.

“Almost too good.” Donald’s brow furrowed as he popped the cherry between his lips. Biting down on the firm morsel of flesh, ripe and wet. “Does she know about us?”

Hannibal considered it for a moment, mildly amused by Donald’s discomfort. “She suspects that I am involved with someone, I believe. No specifics.” He leaned back against the kitchen counter conversationally, cradling the belly of the wine glass between his fingers. “Do you doubt my discretion?”

“I wouldn’t dare.”

“Alana will be here this evening if you would like to stick around,” Hannibal offered. “You can both conspire to tease me about my mysterious paramour.”

Donald snorted with laughter, the tension momentarily broken.

Outside the kitchen window, rain was starting to fall. Hannibal took a deep breath as he rolled a mouthful of cabernet on his tongue, trying to capture the fleeting sense of bacchanal wildness he had glimpsed earlier. Ozone, sharp tannins. Underneath, decaying leaves and a hint of dark tobacco.

Inside his mind, a scene played out as if upon a stage. A dark alleyway in Baltimore, filth churned into a muddy slurry by the driving rain. Stark against the mud was the naked form of an old man bled dry and pale. His limbs were curled in against his body, as if to protect against the downpour. The empty sockets of Ciacco’s eyes faced up towards the churning clouds, as if praying to God for release from his torment. Hannibal longed to sketch this scene, fresh as it was in his memory. The glutton, cowering in the bowels of Dante’s vision of hell.

“It’s going to storm again,” Donald said, teasingly. “And you, barbarian, are going to make me go outside in this weather.”

“I have guests arriving at seven, and five courses to prepare.” Hannibal signed, finishing his wine and returning to the chopping block.

“You never do things by half measures,” Donald said, nudging a wooden box of wine bottles with his foot. “Fine food, finer wine.” He crouched to examine one of the bottles. “Vin Santo di Montepulciano. A little overindulgent, don’t you think?”

“A rich and complex wine, perfect for a Renaissance theme.” Hannibal said. “Importing it was quite an ordeal.”

Donald straightened with a smirk. “A magnificent debauch will be had.” He fished another cherry from the pot before Hannibal could protest. “Dessert?” He asked.

“An old Florentine recipe. Dark cherries and sweet spices.” Hannibal replied. “A sauce to complement the roasted hare, if there are enough cherries left to make it.”

Donald offered the cherry to Hannibal by way of apology, his fingers painted crimson with juice. Hannibal opened his mouth, allowing the other man to place the sweet-tart fruit upon his tongue. The acid mingled with the last vestiges of the deep red wine, bringing out metallic notes in the flavour. It tasted, for the briefest moment, like blood. With a sudden impulse, Hannibal captured Donald’s wrist and brought the red-stained fingers to his lips, laving his thumb with a rough swipe of his tongue.

Donald gasped, a barely perceptible intake of breath. “I wish I could stay.”

“Stay,” urged Hannibal, in a low-voiced echo. He released Donald’s wrist, leaving only an exquisite smear of cherry juice as evidence. “I can introduce you to my friends.”

Donald laughed. “To be torn apart by the ravenous beast of Baltimore society. Tempting, but I rather prefer being alone with you. I should go and find my clothes, before I change my mind.”

Donald’s neatly-trimmed beard rasped against Hannibal’s skin as they kissed, sweet and lingering.

Then, like a memory, he was gone. Barefoot and silent, his progress through the house only signalled by the creaking of the staircase as he ascended.

Thunder rumbled in the distance, and the air was suffused with electricity. Hannibal smiled, pleased by the anticipatory shudder that tingled down his spine, and resumed pitting the last of the cherries.

He was washing his hands at the kitchen sink when he heard the front door close, signalling the departure of the ever-practical Donald. Carefully drying his hands with a towel, Hannibal took a deep breath to centre his mind before he went to the refrigerator to retrieve the meat for the evening’s repast.

A wild hare, neatly skinned and trimmed for roasting. Blanched sweetbreads, firm and plump, the dark and jewel-like lobes of a liver, and a heart. The hare had been procured from the finest artisanal butcher in Baltimore. The sweetbreads and liver had been procured from a careless bow hunter as he lay bleeding upon his own workbench, pierced from all directions by implements sharp and blunted.

And the heart. Ah, the heart.

Hannibal placed the vacuum-sealed organ on the counter, marvelling at the apparent quality of the meat despite the decrepit state of the animal it had been taken from. “Buongiorno Giacomo,” he said quietly, finding himself in a playful mood. “Come stai?”

**iii. Cerberus**

“I hoped you would call,” the old man had said, as Hannibal crouched beside the wooden crate. “I want to have a drink with you, to reminisce about old times.”

Hannibal looked up at Giacomo, who was leaning against a shelf in the cramped stock room. His cheap cigar filled the room with acrid smoke of over-dry tobacco, and Hannibal longed to cut the conversation short. He tested the weight of the heavy box before lifting it carefully, cradling the precious wine to his chest as he rose. “My schedule has been unexpectedly busy,” he replied.

“You’re a shrink, aren’t you?” Giacomo continued, following Hannibal out into the store. He had delegated the heavy lifting to his customer with a vague complaint about his age and general decrepitude, but he looked hale enough despite his weight. “I looked you up on the computer. An interesting career choice, given your past. But I suppose being an artist doesn’t pay too well.”

Hannibal felt a lump in his throat, a combination of the cigar smoke and the sudden sensation of being seen, of being known. He would have liked nothing more than to dismiss this as paranoia, but there was always a possibility that Giacomo was not mistaken.

The old man held the door open. “Art is food for the soul,” Hannibal responded cagily, “but the body requires something more practical for sustenance.” Giacomo followed him out toward the adjacent alleyway where his car was parked. It was quiet, this early on a Tuesday morning. Overhead, the sky was grey with the threat of rain.

“I’d like to see your art, one day.” Giacomo said, as Hannibal unlocked the trunk of his Bentley. “I remember seeing your sketches, back in Florence. You were a promising talent.”

Hannibal lifted the crate into the trunk, simultaneously relieved at being divested of his physical burden, and crushed by a metaphorical burden far weightier. He turned toward the other man, his expression guarded. “Again, I’m sorry. You must have mistaken me for someone else.”

Giacomo chuckled. “I’m certain that you’re wrong,” he said. “But okay, I can play this game.” He took another puff from his cigar and blew a noxious cloud into Hannibal’s face. He waited for a reaction, seeming disappointed when he only provoked a slight moue of distaste. Hannibal wasn’t entirely sure what he expected. Some admission of guilt, a show of violence. “Let’s get these invoices sorted out, and you can be on your way.”

They walked in silence back to the front door of the fine food emporium, Hannibal ever aware of Giacomo’s appraising eyes on him as they traversed the short distance. A hidden bell tinkled overhead as they entered.

“I understand,” said Giacomo, his voice echoing in the silent room. He made no move to approach the counter. “I am too worn-down to care about appearances, and too old to hide from my sins. But I understand.”

“I’m not sure who you think I am, or what sins I have to hide.” Hannibal replied, giving in to curiosity. He was still unsure whether this was a threat to be dealt with, or simply an old man with a wild imagination.

“I think you are a rich man,” Giacomo replied, with a glint in his eye. “You have an expensive car, and expensive taste in wine. You look restrained, but that doesn’t fool me. I think you have proclivities, and you have the capacity to overindulge in these proclivities when given an opportunity.”

“Are you intending to offer me such an opportunity, Ciacco?” Hannibal asked. It was either that, or the man intended to extort him for some imagined foibles. Such a bold solicitation made it unlikely that he was aware of the extent of Hannibal’s extracurricular pursuits.

Giacomo smiled, disregarding the use of his old nickname. “I have connections,” he said simply. “I think we could do business together. Whatever you want. Girls, boys. I don’t judge.”

Hannibal blinked. It was a relief, certainly, to know that his secrets were not yet exposed. However, the old man may still prove to be a thorn in his side. He glanced toward the door, playing the part of a man with a guilty conscience. “We should perhaps discuss this at another time,” he said.

Giacomo’s eyes narrowed briefly, before he gave a shrug. “Let me ring up those invoices, and we can plan a meeting.”

Hannibal nodded, a distracted expression on his face. He patted down the pockets of his coat. “I think I may have left my wallet in the stock room. May I?”

Giacomo, who was settling onto the stool behind the counter, waved toward the other end of the shop. “Of course,” he said.

Hannibal felt buoyed by his spontaneity as he entered the stock room, his mind working swiftly to concoct a plan. He quietly tested the back door, poking his head out to confirm that it led into the narrow alleyway beside the store. His Bentley effectively blocked the view from the street, which was a stroke of luck. It was almost as if the universe had conspired to fashion his whim into reality.

Closing the door with exaggerated care, Hannibal made his way back into the room. His wallet, which had been in his pocket all along, was joined by a battered utility knife from one of the metal shelves that lined the room. The weapon was sharp enough, but the blade was short. Using it would require some work, and it would be messier than a scalpel. Hannibal pre-emptively mourned the loss of his business shirt, knowing he would not have the opportunity to change his clothes before things got bloody.

He knew, in the logical part of his brain, that to kill the old man would be a grave risk. He had been building to another flurry of activity after eleven months of measured restraint, but it was far better to let this sleeping dog lie. To select another name from his rolodex, someone to whom he could not be connected.

But, there was another part of his brain that had already begun to slaver at the prospect of blood, to hunger for the sensation of a knife parting skin. A devil on his shoulder, an irresistible impulse.

Taking a step closer to the shelves, Hannibal reached out and dealt a backhand swipe to a large jar of olives, as if he were a petulant cat. The jar fell, smashing loudly on the concrete floor. It had the desired effect, as he heard the cry of dismay from Giacomo, the torrent of Italian cursing.

A sense of calm washed over Hannibal as he stood in the centre of the room, waiting for the old man to come and investigate the breakage. He had been dormant for far too long, but perhaps Giacomo had been right. Chance had summoned a feast, and he was eager to give in to indulgence.

Somewhere in the distance, a dog began to bark.

The storm was coming.

**iv. The Feast**

In the kitchen, Hannibal found brief respite from the cacophony of his guests, drunk already on his sweet Tuscan wine. He had chosen his table well, as evidenced by the raucous howls of laughter that echoed through the house. The first two courses had already been devoured to great acclaim. A simple but elegant preparation of sweetbreads served with mushrooms and pancetta, and liver sausages wrapped in pork caul fat. The stuffed and darkly-burnished heart of Ciacco the Florentine sat resting on the counter, perfumed with marjoram and rosemary. He was in the process of putting the finishing touches on the roasted hare, when he sensed motion in the doorway.

Hannibal looked up. “Alana,” he said, greeting the visitor. “Thank you again for coming. I hope you are enjoying yourself.”

“I could do with some relaxation. It’s been a long week.” Alana Bloom leant against the counter, arms crossed over her chest, and watched Hannibal at his work. Employing tweezers for precision, he was decorating the serving platter with wild flowers and whole cherries on the stem.

Hannibal adopted an expression of concern. “Am I being too harsh a taskmaster?”

She laughed by way of reassurance. “This batch of students is definitely exhausting. The world hasn’t yet eroded their sense of enthusiasm, and I cringe to think that I could have ever been so naive. But, no. I wouldn’t mind if that was all I had to deal with.”

“Oh?” Hannibal set aside his tweezers and surveyed the finished dish. It was perfect, conveying a woodland aesthetic that was fitting with the whimsical bent of the evening’s dishes.

“The FBI wanted me to consult on a case,” Alana said, with a confidential tone. “A very prominent case, and a very difficult one.”

“I admit that I’m curious, but I won’t press further.” Hannibal said. He lifted his wine glass. “Join me for a drink?”

“The other guests have had enough of your wine already,” Alana said. Her words were punctuated with another burst of laughter from the dining room. “I’m more of a beer drinker, personally.”

Hannibal had long been intending to try his hand at beer, and he made a mental note to buy the required supplies. He had a large jug of blood that was waiting for purpose, and he wondered what characteristics that would bring to a brew.

“Sadly, I have no beer.” Hannibal apologised. “I will try to be more prepared for future visits.”

Alana stepped closer, a smile creeping across her face. “I appreciate the gesture. If I didn’t already suspect that your dance card was full, I would think you were trying to get me drunk.”

“You look as if you could use it,” Hannibal said. Despite the flirtation, there was a deep-set exhaustion in Alana’s eyes. “There is always time for revelry, even in the face of chaos. Murder and mayhem is all over the news. The Chesapeake Ripper roams the streets of Baltimore.”

Alana blinked in surprise, before her face settled down into a mask of resignation. “I thought you weren’t going to ask questions, but I guess there’s no keeping secrets from you.”

“It is the Ripper, then?” Hannibal asked, keeping his expression pleasantly neutral.

“As far as the FBI is concerned. My involvement has been minimal,” Alana responded. “If it wasn’t for my prior engagements, they would have taken me for the whole week. I managed to get away with only a single consultation with one of the trainees on the taskforce.”

“An agent in training, never a trainee.” Hannibal replied, with a smile.

“We had better serve the next course.” Trying her own skills at changing the subject, Alana lifted the platter that housed the Florentine’s heart. “Your guests will be getting hungry again.”

“Ravenous,” agreed Hannibal.

Rain battered against the kitchen window, as if begging for entry. Within the haven of his house, the cultural elite howled and shrieked in a self-sustaining spiral of mirth, a sound almost indistinguishable from terror and pain. Dimly, Hannibal wondered how their cries might change if he were to lift the carving knife and dispatch them one by one in glorious frenzy.

But the time for such delight was passed. For now, hunger would only be satisfied by the conventional means of fine food and finer wine.

The applause as they entered the dining room was thunderous, echoing the tempest outside.

Tomorrow, the rain would clear. Life would continue as before.

Sated, the beast would recede.


End file.
